


An Unexpected Journey

by archea2



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, Angst and Humor, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Dragons, F/M, M/M, Or passionate friendship, Romance, They've all aged VERY gracefully, your choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 05:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9585830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: "Newt." Tina was wrapping herself briskly in her new cape, which still bore a few scratches from Hoppy’s kitten trials in harpooning himself across the couch. "This dragon business beats every plan you’ve talked me into the last seventy years, uh huh, "do the Hippogriff" included, which I’m never doing again until your next hundredth birthday dance. I’m in."Newt glanced over to where Percival stood, his face unreadable."But Ilvermorny –""Well, somebody else can give the Alpha Werewolf Frat a talking-to, for a change. Or tell young Rolf that family quirks are all well and good, but I want that Augurey out of the lockers by lunch bell. It’s making Coach jumpy."Newt glanced again."Emphatically Tina," Percival said.(My take on the "1997!Newt, Tina and Graves team up to rescue the Gringotts dragon" prompt over on the kink meme.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flightinflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/gifts).



> Takes place on 1 and 2 May 1997, during the last chapters of Deathly Hallows. Warning for one minor character's (pre-story) violent death. No graphic violence in the story.
> 
> Ship-wise, I tend to see this as pre-OT3 but you could make a case for Gen and passionate friendship. Your call! One thing is certain: they love each other fiercely, and they have each other's back.

_All that is gold does not glitter,_

_Not all those who wander are lost;_

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring;_

_Renewed shall be the blade that was broken,_

_The crownless again shall be king._

_J. R. Tolkien_

 

The last house was also the first step into the woods, the huff-and-puff of its chimney rising above the green fronds when you caught a day glimpse of the village from the road above. (And if the _smoke_ looked green now and then…surely, that was a trick of light and leaves? Surely.) It was cradled by the eternal Vermont hills, in the bloom of health and grass on that first of May; and as the day let go of the daylight, it became cradled in birdsong and TV chitchat, altogether celebrating the birthdate of the Vermont Anti-Slavery Party. 

Well, nearly altogether.

"...Gringotts' CEO now claims that the incident was 'largely misconstrued', and that every heirloom stored is, in Mr Gnarkles' own terms, 'safe as caves'. When asked about the missing dragon..."

The Newswitch’s voice perked up suddenly, morphing into bright eager tones even as she continued to mouth her report. "Mr Scamander, _did_ you know that seven Nifflers out of ten favour a charm necklace for their birthday? Vulcan  & Veela's offer..."

The long form walking about the room (with a cautious hand to his hip) waved her on. Newt Scamander bent over to pick up a cardigan trailing on the floor, with barely a wince when a small creature landed on the small of his back, catapulting out and onto the top of the television set.

"Aladin VII," Newt threw impatiently over his shoulder, "is resting in peace under my silver bells. What did Gnarkles have to say?"

Mr Gnarkles, it seemed, had not much to say, except that rumours had been vastly exaggerated and every measure necessary to any measurable aspect of his predicament was being taken.

"Goblindegook," Newt griped. He scowled at the screen, then turned aside to throw a few more items into the backpack lying open on the couch. "Milly, Mauler! Hoppy, down!" The Kneazle turned its nose up, and Newt's eyes rolled correspondingly. "All right, all right, you infernal spacehopper. Milk? To come," he added once Hoppy had reacquainted its paws with the floor.

The Kneazle-brand dirty look was met with a wide grin, creasing up the speaker’s face under a tangled web of hair, once reddish-brown, now a paler marmalade on account of the varied tropical glares it had endured through the century.

"All right, so you have food, four doors to come and go through as you please, and Mrs – _Miz_ Buchanan next door to keep an eye on you. You know you can trust her. Mummy’s going on a little trip to help a…" Newt paused to reflect. "A friend in need. Old friend indeed, who knows? They didn’t specify the sub-genus, but if the eyes were pink _and_ milky – yes, Hoppy, coming up – then they must have been red in the first place, and that would infer…"

The rest of the monologue faded under his breath as he poured a carton of milk into three bowls, kneeling down to run a light hand over each spotted back as they, in turn, petted the slim ankles. At last he stood up, checked the cat’s-cradle of straps, flaps and buckles on the pack, hitched it across his shoulders, straightened those, tossed a rogue strand out of his eyes, and grabbed a pinch of Floo powder on his chimney sill.

"Dorset, Scamander Hou –"

The green flames had leapt up, consuming the last syllable while another voice filled the fireplace: earnest if a little veiled, as Tina’s arms shot out in his direction. 

"Newt, no!"

 

* * *

 

"Newt, yes," said Newt, and clasped her hands gently to help her out of the grate.

Long ago, in what would never be another lifetime because Tina had always been part and parcel of his, even when they’d both stayed away and let tectonic patches of time slip by, she had looked deceptively baby-faced. She did again now, eyes half closed, blinking herself alert. Then came a mew; a clatter; a startled Kneazle, knocking her meal over with a swish of her tail. In another blink Tina was at Milly’s side, righting her bowl, spelling it full again, smiling over at Newt. The milk had spilt over the oaken boards, a rivulet between his feet and hers, and Newt felt as if it made a connection: a white thread of _what if,_ a match between milk and fire, her smile, the late hour, even the wind outside breathing sleepily over the trees.

Then she said, "Not on my watch, mister", and he was facing his old friend Tina again, Ilvermorny’s First Lady.

"I knew it! The moment Percival’s Patronus rapped at my pane and said _dragon_ , I knew you’d be kicking up Floo. Newt, you have to let somebody else handle this. You blew one hundred candles a week ago: you’re well past the line of fire."

"Nobody at the Ministry will bother. The Ministry –" Newt clutched his pack, struggling for words. He wasn’t one for Ould Bureaucrats’ get-togethers, but it was strange, how Theseus’ anniversary had gone last month without an official owl Apparating at his window or the _Prophet_ asking for a quote. The only tribute had come from...

"Wait, Percival?" 

"Percival, of course. Emphatically Percival." Tina was laughing and frowning, her face – slightly parched, but still a face of its own, sweetly lined under the dark bob which had turned part-grey, _lyard_ a zoologist would say, like a badger’s coat of arms – voluble. "What did you expect? From the man who glared MACUSA into investing in a Whirlwind computer – poor Abernathy had to relocate in the supply closet, that thing was a humdinger – and doubled its clean-up rate? Reaping an Emeritus, once everyone realized only he knew how to man it, after it sent Greenwitch Village twice into blackout." The frown was topside now. "I did expect to find him here. Unless.... oh, that man. I bet you anything he deliberately forgot –" 

The flames shot green again, letting in a new guest. Tina, who had been patting her streamlined trench coat, sighed loudly. 

"Sir. To think I was just praising you as a circuit surfer." 

"Tina. Newt. I, ah. Was taking a few minutes to pay my respects to Mrs Buchanan." Percival smoothed his silver cap of hair back two-handedly and strode out.

"Perce." Newt had retreated to the Kneazle line. 

Having fished a tiny object out of her pocket, Tina tapped it with her wand. She waited until Graves’ bow to unfold it and slip the glasses deftly up his nose. "Don’t make me Gemino them again," she said. 

"I don’t _need_ them." 

"Yes, you do. They compliment your eyes: austere but chic, the Graves mystique. Now glare some at Newt and help me ground him."

Newt watched them with a secret rustle of love at the complicity which spoke of years at each other’s side, back, and call. Watched the one linger, head bent just the extra second it took for the other to show her care, and knew it was the care that grounded him, when he could have already Apparated to the other side of Vermont.

"…end up a centenarian roast for a dragon on the run."

"Not just a dragon. A Ukrainian Ironbelly! It might even be one of mine. I mean, it’s been there for _ages_ , and the Ministry was very hush hush as to their fate post-war. I have a responsibility, Tina!"

"Never mind that war! _This_ war’s the worst, you have no idea, you could –"

"Never mind me. He’s alone, three quarters blind, incapable of navigating its way to a herd… Tina, he’s been kept in the dark for years, warped and tortured for years," Newt took a breath and braced himself for a low blow. "I have every idea of what was done to him, and I know that he needs guidance to a safe place. And I thought that you, of all people, would understand that."

There was a pause. Tina opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"Perce?" Newt turned on rather stiff legs, preparing to face another friend. "What shall it be? You letting me do the one rescue job still within my reach, or me duelling you for the use of my own chimney?"

"Actually…" Percival spoke wryly, but his eyes were grave. "I’m here to tell you it wouldn’t be any use. You haven’t heard of the new measures, have you? No, I thought not. The long-distance Floo Network has been closed off for an indefinite term. And no international Portkey will be authorized in or out of the country, effective from today. We are, for lack of a better word, warlocked."

 

* * *

 

 

"Well, that takes the witch cake."

Tina’s Americanisms had grown forth and multiplied in time, a thing of wonder to the Briton and the linguist in him. Newt would have paused to write this one down if he hadn’t been reeling under the news. 

"They can’t do that!"

"Sit this one too out? They can and they will." Percival’s eyes, ever dark and broody, now magnified by the black-framed glasses, moved to him. "Have meant to ever since the _Ghost_ splashed Dumbledore’s death all over its front page. They think the Statute’s a goner in Europe, and now they want diplomacy a zero-sum game while they stoke up their wards. Quahog thinks that if he’s very, very lucky and keeps us all under a force field, our No-Majs will chalk it down to a case of mass-teria."

"He can’t do this!" Tina was jutting up her chin and fists, a very Tina response. "We had an agreement! I gave Minerva McGonagall my personal word that if any child was endangered, Ilvermorny would welc– "

"I’m sorry," Percival said, his gaze still searching Newt’s. "I’ve done my best, Tina. But to Quahog, I’m yesterday’s man. It’s all _Take the kids, the families will want in next, and who knows what they’ll bring with them?_ "

"They know the answer to that. Morrigan’s sake, they pass our _memorial_ to that, whenever they take a stroll in the MACUSA lobby!"

"Squabbles and partisan rifts," Percival answered grimly, "to say nothing of a rain check with Lord Voldemort. Can’t afford to draw his eye, can we? Not when he’s been such a gent as to look the other way these past three years. It was all I could do to finagle a pass for Rolf." 

"And I thanked you, then, in my brother’s name. And I’ll thank you now to give me mine." Quietly, finally, Newt held the somber gaze, having looked around first to check that he was leaving no window unlatched. He stretched his hand out.

" _What_?"

"Tina, come on. This is Percival-of-course. D’you really think he’d come here unprepared? Or come to gloat?" 

Tina looked carefully from one man to the other. If Perce’s twitch of lips did not give him away, Newt thought, then his right hand would, pushed deep down his right-hand pocket.

"…No," she said, the word tilting up her own mouth. "Not Percival-of-course. Okay then. I’m going to need thicker boots and leather gloves. Oh, and a cape – it’s England. Can I borrow your plaid?"

It was Newt’s turn to pause. 

"Newt." Tina was wrapping herself briskly in her new cape, which still bore a few scratches from Hoppy’s kitten trials in harpooning himself across the couch. "This dragon business beats every plan you’ve talked me into the last seventy years, uh huh, "do the Hippogriff" included, which I’m never doing again until your next hundredth birthday dance. I’m in."

Newt glanced over to where Percival stood, his face unreadable. 

"But Ilvermorny –"

"Well, somebody else can give the Alpha Werewolf Frat a talking-to, for a change. Or tell young Rolf that family quirks are all well and good, but I want that Augurey out of the lockers by lunch bell. It’s making Coach jumpy." 

Newt glanced again.

"Emphatically Tina," Percival said.

The fire had been cowering now there would be no more guests, but Newt felt its unseen light burn up his cheeks, his eyes, make its own private habitat inside his chest. Felt half his age and twice his strength as he took a step forward.

"All right then," he said, and his heart glowed up, hot and brilliant like an Ashwinder’s egg. "We’re doing this. What’s the loophole?" 

"Here." Percival took his hand out of his pocket. To Newt’s surprise, it was empty. "My cufflinks," came next. "I had them Portkeyed a month ago, when I booked a long-distance trip online. Then I paid… the site a later visit to, ah, update its data. Officially, I used the Portkey last week on a health hike in Switzerland. Better a little tinkering than risk us on an unauthorized item: _I_ set up the tracking protocol for those."

"Mercy Lewis." Tina had had to sit down mid-speech. "Sir, you do realize that makes you the perpetrator of a Section 6 Breach of – and did you say a month ago? What made you decide, a whole month ago –" 

Bu **t**  Percival only smiled briefly, and turned to Accio the forgotten pack.

"Newt, where are we going? And how many Houdinis did you fit in here?" 

"Oh, ah." Newt started. "Well, the Newssayer was awfully vague as to the dragon's flight coordinates, and with a blind or near-blind animal it’s a bit of a sweat, retracing their route. So I thought I’d kip in Dorset first, and then put my ear to the road. Check out the _Prophet_ , call the Ministry to see if…" Newt’s voice faltered at Tina’s snag of breath. "What? It would just be a routine inquiry, they know me there!"

"Newt, no." Percival’s voice was gravelly with more than age. "Whatever we do, we keep away from the Ministry. They won’t tell us much these days, and they’ll ask far too plenty."

"Where, then?" Newt asked plaintively, but he took a step forward on seeing the green stones flare up on each of Perce’s wrists. A hand was stretched out – was caught – all questions lost to the quick of departure, only trust left: that Tina was clinging to Percival’s other arm, that either, or both, knew their way out. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hoppy and Mauler dash across the room and sent a mental goodbye under the couch. Then magic called, fast and callous, hurtling him across multiple planes of being as he closed his eyes and leant into the counter-grip of Percival’s hand.

 

* * *

 

 

Portkey jaunts made her heart shake in her now-frailer chest, but Tina fought the nausea. There were a few perks to living through nine decades, and taking things in stride was one of them. She waited until her vision had adjusted to this new night to release Percival’s arm.

Moonlit Hogsmeade was nearly the same as Hogsmeade at bright noon a year ago. Its main street had been lined in black when she’d stood there, clad in purple and blue brocade, Ilvermorny’s chief mourner for the passing of Albus Dumbledore. The difference was in the silence. Hogsmeade was a quiet borough, but Hogsmeade had never been _dead_ quiet, not even in the dead of night. She felt a shiver down the runnel of her back and turned to the others.

"Bakery," she whispered. "This way – quick."

They stayed on the shadowed side of the street, a tight-knit group. It was a paler sky, the morning-end of night: and yet, no birdsong. Huh. Something new, that. She still recalled Queenie’s excited Firecalls during their first year apart: _peewits and lapwings and tits, Teenie, ain’t that cute! Jacob says he’s never seen such great… okay, I’ll quit teasing_. Naughty Queenie, so happy in her newfound land. 

She smiled to herself; kept smiling as they turned a corner and came in sight of Kowalski’s Knut Kroissants, its door a glossy butterscotch brown. Only a clump of shadows between them and Queenie’s warm home – only ten steps to go – but as they drew nearer, the shadows loomed up and thickened.

"Who are ye and what’s yer business here?"

"Dragons," said Newt before anyone could stop him.

She caught Percival’s quick curse of breath, saw his arm rise between Newt and the man, half warning, half warding. "Let me," he mouthed to her before his next step took him out of the shadows, his features sharpened in the moonlight.

"Do you know me?" he said, and if the other voice had been pitch and frost, his was the Graves voice, still oddly devoid of any American drawl, its lower tones deadly soft. "Your master does, or I wouldn’t be here."

The Deatheaters stood still. Tina watched them watch Percival, his dark eyes, his proud carriage of head, the dilacerated map of scars that had left their white marks across his brow and cheekbones. 

"What’s yer name, then? And why weren’t we told about ye?"

"What, you think Lord Voldemort makes it his duty to proclaim his every ally? To his every footman? Perhaps he relies upon their memories." Two wands were raised as Percival dipped a hand under his cloak. They were lowered when he held out a piece of newspaper, yellowed and wrinkled, but still legible under its preservation charm. Tina knew what it was. She’d seen it have pride of place on his desk, a flagrant _go to hell_ to MACUSA’s _least said soonest mended,_ and a call for constant vigilance. "Or do Gellert Grindelwald’s name and face no longer ring a spell?"

She’d never known who, among the Aurors, had agreed to having his memory of that longago arrest drawn out and fixed into a photograph. When the _Ghost_ has released its scoop – the impostor kneeling, his face warped by rage a moment before it was stripped of its Percival mask -, she had ranted at the leak. At the time, it had felt like a betrayal among the ranks. A humiliation for Percival, to know that this parody of his face, branded with Grindelwald's name, would be gawked at by everyone in their community. In reality, however, the article and its infamous picture had helped soothe Percival’s reintegration into a service left in chaos by his Doppelganger. It had helped Percival find closure. And it was helping even now.

"But he’s in prison!" – from the better-informed footman.

"No longer," Percival said, and Tina started at how true the lie sounded. "Your master saw to that, and now I am on my way to join him. Why don’t you call him, if you doubt my word? I’m sure he’ll be delighted to leave his current business and vouch for me." He threw his head back and laughed, a dark, unforgiving peal of sound. 

The laughter did the trick. There was a shuffling of feet and a coughing, followed by a bright pop as both Death Eaters Disapparated.

"Merlin’s beard," Newt said, eyes still popping green and wide, while Tina walked up to the door and gave it three quick raps. "You _really_ did come prepared!"

The door opened and they filed in, straight into a world of warm, vibrant scents. Five a.m. in Hogsmeade meant baking hour, and Queenie all but tumbled into their arms in a cloud of flour and welcome.

"Teenie darling – and Newt – and, oh, Mr Graves, too! Come right inside. What in Mercy’s name were y’all doing outside?"

"Poetic justice," said Percival, his lips amused.

"Past curfew? It’s a miracle you didn’t get caught!" 

"Er," said Newt, still enveloped in her arms, and gave her a summary of their spat while Graves and Tina Accioed a few chairs near to the large oven. "I don’t know that we should stay here, Queenie. If these people find out about us, they’ll – "

"Look up the resident Muggle-lover? Well, honey, they might. But I’m the resident baker, too. Number one provider of Hogwarts’ locally-sourced bread, that's me. That Snape fella hasn’t had them tar and feather me yet, I bet you he won’t any time soon."

No more would he, Tina thought. It would take a force of nature to keep Queenie away from Hogwarts, where she had "six grandkids and counting", all of them no doubt engaged in the family business of resisting whoever decreed how and whom they should love.

She let herself fall into one of the solid chairs and take a deep breath. Cocoa and choux batter, warmly rich, merging with the earthier tang of coffee and the rise of the bread loaves. Present reaching out to past, to coming home and seeing Queenie cook their blue-plate dinners with unflappable joy, no, _conduct_ them like a jazz tune at the tap of her wand. Then as now, although she had given up on finger waves for her hair, white from more than flour, and her life ("buttered up on both sides, Teenie!") had left her a plumper Queenie.

And Jacob was, if anything, a plumpest Jacob. Barely a lick of grey in his hair, waving a hand to them as Newt stepped up to the photograph and brushed it with his fingertips, saying "Hullo, Hardy." 

(Newt had been Laurel, Jacob’s cherished joke during the months before he and Queenie had taken off for England. When they’d been every night to the moving pictures, No-Maj style, to watch the antics of a lanky Brit and his portly, mustached sidekick.) 

"I’m here to catch a dragon," Newt told him. "And see him safely home." He paused, and Tina almost heard Jacob’s answering chuckle. "I wish you were here with us. Remember our ‘58 hols in Peru, busting that Vipertooth organ traffic for Perce? You looked great in a serape."

"Dragon? How corking!" Queenie beamed approval while encouraging them to catch the various pastries floating in the air or frisking along the shelves. A brioche Niffler scuttled by, pushing a gumdrop down its pouch. 

"Uh, well." Tina sipped at her cocoa. "We’re talking a Ukrainian Ironbelly here. You know, big tall customer, _capable of crushing the dwellings on which it lands_ …"

"Don’t forget," Percival mumured, "its _particularly long and vicious_ talons."

Newt paused abruptly in his one-man dialogue with Jacob. "Are you two…quoting from my book?"

Queenie laughed. "Honey, Tina had her Sophomores read it front to back and back to front in Defence. For, how did she put it? Tips from Mother Nature. Can’t speak for Mr Graves, though."

"I can." Tina waited until Newt’s eyes were on Percival. "We’re lucky he grabbed the right picture to flash at these Death Eaters."

Percival did not flush up – the likes of Percival never did, unless there was a Confringo involved – but looked distinctly hot under the collar. They both knew who the other picture on his desk featured: a flustered, slightly cross-eyed Newt, looking down at the golden medal round his neck.

"The point is," Percival said with would-be Percival rigor, "that Target flew up and away ten hours ago, and we have no idea where."

"North." Upon their collective stare, Queenie added "Potterwatch" and "I get with the times, sweeties. Your dragon was spotted above Leeds at five yesterday, flying on a course north ho." 

"Good!" Newt had jumped to his feet, all brisk limbs and hopeful mind. "A Norwegian Ridgeback, then. It’s making for the Lake District – next best to the fjords – genetic drive – like the salmons, y’know, only by air."

"Unless it took a left turn to Wales. Or the Irish coast."

"Oh. Right." Newt, who had deflated a bit, brightened up again. "It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other, really. But it’s a start. And the thing with dragons, see, if they’re close enough to water, their heartstring starts to vibrate – strong pure vibe – can be picked up by any… by any… oh, _snap_. Knew I’d skipped a note in the revised edition."

By another strong pure heart, Tina told herself, gazing at the red-rose glow. Or even two.


	2. Chapter 2

 

It still lacked an hour to the dawn and she spent most of it dozing, her frame abandoned to the plump armchair. When day called, and Tina struggled up the muzzy depths of sleep, she was met by a hum of voices. Close, gentle, low - often too low -, but coming here and again within earshot, like the ups and downs of the fire.  
  
"...never could hide anything from you. " (Percival.) "When did you first suspect? Back in July?"  
  
"No, not then. I was shocked, yes, but not entirely so. She was always been so independent-minded, I thought..." Too low again, until her sister's soft American burr resurfaced. "... everyone suspects, now ...tragedy... couldn't tell Tina..." Sharper, now. "Did _you_? Is that why -"  
  
"No! I swear to you, no." Rash tones, urgent, gloved in a… plea? Then the voices plummeted again. "….thought it best for her…. a remedy, a comfort, knowledge that at least she'd helped rescue another…. I know Tina like the back of my soul. Selfish of me, no doubt, but -"  
  
"Oh, honey. You're a very generous man." 

"Hardly that." (Spoken from a closed throat, with more emotion than she’d heard from him lately.)

"I say you are. And if anyone can judge from example, that would be me."  
  
"I know, Mrs Kowalski. Still. Right now, I should be... only, I wanted a, well, a day in the sun. Old man’s wish. One last romp, shared and shared alike."

  
"Hum." Tina risked a chink of sight and there was Queenie, bending forward to retrieve a tray of gold-glazed pastries, her back turned to the chairs. "Can I speak my mind?"  
  
"As an alternative to reading mine? Please."  
  
"Mr Graves... I always wondered, all these years, if the reason you didn't make a go of it was - you couldn't make a choice."  
  
The words slipped from Percival's ear into hers, eddying down her memories. Where to start?

Newt coming back to lay his book down eagerly at her feet; finding Modesty still with her: eight years old, prickling with child magic and the orphan's wish for things to last, to stay the same. Packing up not an option, neither then nor later, after Picquery's midnight visit: _Percival will say yes, but mine is a perilous seat. Not because it is powerful, but because it is lonely. I need you to stay, Miss Goldstein_.   
  
Years of President Graves becoming Percival, their intimacy furthered by the war - although the war had taken a gapyear now and then: a respite, for her to spend abroad. Memories of Newt's face, gaunter but still and invincibly boyish; laughing after that wild Fwooper chase in Africa, the three of them covered in pink feathers like a burlesque trio. Yes, Percival too.  
  
But it hadn't been enough. In the course of years, something had risen in her, a seed, not quite of motherhood (Newt's stronger suit), but of memory – of seeing a child's open-lipped wonder at magic. She had taught Modesty well, and now she wanted to double the memory; triple it; make it a lifetime. She had told Percival so in '45, at their one and only drunken party, adding "Not that I want to marry!" (Queenie's suit). What did she want, then? A change; a chance for her own strong fibre to be in the open, deployed on her own terms. The Victory Gigglewater had swirled her head, making it hard to look him in the eye – Percival's too-silent eyes, all black pupils now, as if she’d already gone and left him in the dark. 

Gone over to Ilvermony, to thrive there; pat when Newt had come back, shaking the Ministry's dust off his feet, and their three-cornered game had taken a new spin. Newt a consultant now, when he wasn't away being an uncle. For, indeed, Theseus had surprised the world and its wife by taking one in his prime. May to December, the tongues harshed to Newt's impatient shrug. If Bowtruckles mated at mid-life (Pickett had seen the light in ’31), why shouldn’t humans take a leaf out of their home tree? 

She had seen pictures of the Dorset hall, now half-nursery, half-savannah for Newt’s charges (the suitcase, sadly, hadn’t made it through the war). Rollo had come once on a visit to America, a corn-haired, jolly little Heir. He and Tina had bonded her over pop-tarts (mmm, pop-tarts!) and fighting the good fight, preferably with heaps of tickles. And then… and then, twenty years on, that heart-stopping flinch when she had opened the _Ghost_ ’s centerpage and seen his and Theseus’ names – _in life they were loved and admired, and in their death they were not parted_ , an echo of the old teachings, unconsoling.

(It was war again in wizarding England. When would it not be war?)

She had kept her grief to herself and agonized at the thought of Newt doing the same; had seen in her mind the Dorset hall banked up to the roof with charms and wards and Keepers, but empty on the inside, only Theseus’ widow and Rollo’s baby boy within its walls. Then she had owl-bombed Percival, only to find that he’d staked his claim for half a lifetime’s days off and gone to help Newt start a human family.

It was strange, how she had never felt the slightest twinge of jealousy. Not even in the first summers of peace, when she’d left her own charges to reconnect with them. They were just – loved and admired, Newt and Percival, swinging young Rolf between their hands over dandelion fields; taking turns at bedtime stories over fantastic beasts and where to find them; or bickering, gravely, merrily, over whose teeth were up to that last krowki (not Jacob’s, gone in peace and Queenie’s arms by now, but Queenie carried on the tradition in style).

She had basked in the warmth of reunion, and they had extended it to her, over and over again, so that even now, a grey-haired Madam Principal, she felt safe with them. None of them had made a choice, because all three had known that choosing one came with losing the –

" – trail, but I still say Lakeland as a start. "

She opened her eyes to find Newt folding up a map and Percival, his arms crossed, watching him. 

"Have your say. But if we go off gallivantin’, then I go ahead and check the path. You follow with Tina."

"Oh, all right, fine. Lead the way, daddy-o!"

"Daddy-o." Percival shook his head in pointed disbelief. "What are you, fifty-five?"

But he smiled, the way he always did when Newt was at his irreverent zenith. _A day in the sun_ , Tina recalled, and got up to gather hers.

 

* * *

 

Here was the thing with the British weather, Percival Graves told himself. It wasn’t always British. It could be frivolous, unstolid, undisciplined, a thing of fits and starts, not to be talked into proper behaviour. And, just when you last expected it to, it could turn tautological: _it got sunny in May_. While the sun had been pillowed on the clouds at their departure, it had risen during morning, and was now playing ducks and drakes through the waves as they, too, rose and shone along the Cumbrian coast.

Still, he did not rue his choice of wearing two layers under his waistcoat.

"I need a break," Tina called, and threw a cushioning charm on a bed of pebbles.

"But…" 

"Newt, darling. It’s nearly two. I’d hex for a snack, and your dragon is probably snoring off his latest roast on the go. How many did we count between Dover and here?" 

"Six." Percival took off his glasses to rub at his nose. Goddamn thing pinched like anything. "Including the actual Muggle mechoui. Where they called that nursing home, asking if it was quite safe to let the elderlies laugh unsupervised in this day and age." 

"LARP, I think it was." Newt had opened his pack and was handing out pies and sandwiches, Queenie’s godspeed gift to them. "They tend to say that when I mention dragons."

Percival glanced over at him. Newt looked as fresh as a daisy. Granted, an over-the-hill daisy, but as full of single-minded stamina as if he hadn’t spent the last eight hours Apparating all over the north of England. They had found dragon prints, sun-dried by now, on the mud bank of Grasmere Lake and roamed the upper county for clues – dung piles, wood fires, fields and hedges trampled just _this_ way – Newt whooping ecstatically the whole time. Percival had kept a bespectacled eye around in case they were being trailed, though both sky and land had given the clear out on Death Eaters. Perhaps his lie had caught on, after all. However hard he looked, the only charred casualty on their path to Cumbria had been a dragon-lit clump of trees being put out of their misery by the local fire brigade. 

"Boss! Catch! "

A bacon sarnie was tossed his way; was caught, though not before he’d conjured up a pristine handkerchief first. Newt said "Not bad, old man", and Percival mock-gnarled his face at him.

"At least I don’t dress behind my times."

For Newt had always been fashionably late. When Percival had first met him, Newt had worn a blue coat with an endearingly frock-coatish look about it. Now, in 1997, he was leapfrogging across England in bell-bottom trousers, their colours matching his tangerine hair. He would probably – no. No. _Probably_ was right out. Newt would greet the 21rst century in a Hawaii shirt and a pink Fwooper crest, if it was the last thing Percival ensured in his life.

"Less bickering, more beast tracking, you two." Tina gave St. Bees Beach the once-over before she poured a trickle of Aguamenti into their waiting glasses. "Where next? He must have crossed the sea at this stage." 

"Shouldn’t we, well, be looking for gold? A dragon does not live on sheep and freshwater alone. I mean, there’s a reason why Gringotts –"

"No." Newt’s voice was strained, clipped by that note Percival knew only too well : the rare, but not entirely infrequent note of anger both at the world for sinning and at himself for letting creatures be sinned against. "No, you’re thinking backwards. You’re thinking that dragons _crave_ gold, that they’re, they’re greedy, miserly beings. They’re not. We are."

"Newt …"

"I’m sorry." Newt sighed, pushing his errant lock back over his ear. "I didn’t mean to snap at Perce. But this matter of dragons and gold – I gave it a whole page, only the editor crossed it out. Something about libel issues and the new goblin lobby, blah, bleh, bluh. Truth is, dragons are… they’re soothed by gold. It’s like – you know that sensation, last thing at night, when your bed feels soft and safe all around you and nothing bad can find you there? Well, that’s how a dragon feels if you show him gold. They don’t _need_ it. But it’s warm comfort to their eyes and breath. Like some outside fireglow." Newt’s lips tightened. "And then we come and warp that love. We twist their hearts with fire, until we’ve made them covet our gold for _our_ sake, oh yes, and then we spread the word that _the_ y’re the avid hoarders. Clever us."

There was a silence, which he and Tina heeded until Newt looked up again with a smile. "So no Irish gold mines, Perce. Nice try at decoying us to ye olde homeland, but no. Tina, what’s your advice?"

"We keep our eyes peeled for informants. Wherever there’s mayhem, there’s always a mouth eager to blab of it."

"Is this the Auror or the Headmistress speaking?"

"Both – and the lady about to take a nap." Tina leaned back against her invisible air mattress and drew her cape up to her neck. "Wake me up when it’s zero hour?" 

"Will do," Percival said, while Newt, barefoot and sunfreckled, went to say hullo to the waves. They rose and curved, broke and rose again, their white horses seemingly tireless, and it took some effort not to be lulled into the shimmering peace of repetition. But there was Tina, resting at his side; here was Newt, intent on rescue; and Percival knew better than to close his eyes on them. Head high, bushy white eyebrows to the shore, he took the first watch.

 

* * *

 

He was fighting Grindelwald to the give-and-crash of spells around him, at quarters close enough that he saw eye to that pale blue eye, so pale it could barely be told apart from the sickly white encompassing it. For some reason, he had misled his wand and was conjuring up new and deadly weapons from his open palms. Grindelwald roared, and the sky filled up with smoke; but Percival only dealt him a whistling blow on the head with his teapot. That was what pots were for – and a few other things, such as sheltering uprooted tea leaves, and warming one’s hands at wintertime, and…

Wait, what?

He opened his eyes with a gasp of annoyance. They felt gummy, and he had to rub them before he could take in the scene : the four o’clock sky, white clouds over steadfast blue, the louder tide, Tina kneeling before a small bonfire. Flotsam wood, it was, carefully ring-fenced by a trench carved around it in the wet sand.

"Plus an invisibility charm, " Tina said, reading his mind. She handed him a steaming mug. "Good thing Newt remembered to pack his old campfire kettle along with his old whistle."

Percival, wrenching his thoughts away from _Constant vigilance, phooey_ and a blue streak of self-reproach, blinked. "His old…"

"Call whistle. Twelve-tone, orichalcum, coming-of-age present from Theseus. Newt’s been trying it on the rising tide." 

"Any results?" His nose duly rubbed, Percival set his glasses back to perpendicular rectitude. He could make out Newt further along on the beach, strolling, hands shoved in his trousers pockets. He appeared to be scanning the waves.

"Four Hippocubs, one rather baffled lifeguard. Nothing worth cutting off your forty winks."

"But you were the one…"

"Hush, Percival. I needed the waking time too." Tina sat down again, her body a neat zigzag as she drew her legs carefully under her. "So I could think things through."

The verb rang a bell, a red bell above the water, an alarm bell. Fully awake, he set the mug down. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I’ve figured it out – why you sent me your owl. Why you wanted me in England today, saving an innocent. I mean that" – Tina now spoke with full-frontal clarity, her face transfixed with the determination he had fallen hard and fast for long ago – his office, her voice, young then, shaking with nerves and will, _sir, she beat him under my eyes, she beats all of her children_ \- now saying, "I know who was killed last July".

He moved his eyes to the waves.

"And I don't know if I love you or hate you for hiding this from me."

The white horses were rearing higher, their mother-of-pearl manes scattering in a froth at each new crash of waves. He could see a new one loom up, taller, tallest as it inched forward, its long hair matted with brine and dripping kelp while it cantered towards… 

"Newt." He was on his feet and running before he knew. " _Newt_!" 

"It’s all right!" Newt didn’t turn, but his voice held clear reassurance. He dropped it to a hush. "Just hand me my… ah, yes, thank you, Tina. A sea Kelpie, now that’s unusual. They’re mostly river bound." 

Where they made a business of luring mindless humans for a ride on the nice horsie, before diving underwater and eating up the rider, save for the entrails which they kindly allowed to resurface. Percival grabbed the next elbow within reach. "Behind me. Both of you."

"No, no, I’ve got this. I’ll have her eating out of my hand in a jiffy. Just…" Newt had finished rummaging in his pack and was now standing, one hand in his back, doing his best impersonation of a Magizoologist doing his best impersonation of a casual idler. The other two watched as he sidestepped his way to the Kelpie.

"Oh, please," the Kelpie said. She had transformed into a sulky young lady in a red bathing suit, and her tone was distinctly unimpressed. "If you insist on pony play, at least pick a partner of your age. And species."

Newt let the bridle fall at his feet. "I…can offer a hairbrush?" he said hopefully, hurrying to add "for your mane! It gets tangly!" when she raised an eyebrow.

"Takes one to know one," the Kelpie said, glancing at the wind-tousled mop. "Keep the pressies, Gramps. I’m here because word’s got around in the deep blue sea that you’re looking for a worm."

"A dragon," Newt said firmly. "Surely, slur-calling is beneath your dignity as a fellow creature?"

"Yeah, whatever." The girl turned her head to spit out a chunk of seaweed. "Anyway, I spotted his new stomping ground only an hour ago. Thought you might be interested." 

"We… might be." Tina had stepped forward. "What’s your deal, missy?"

"Ah. Now we’re talking." The Kelpie’s eyes lit up under their thick fringe of eyelashes. "At least you are. I’m not gonna tell you folks anything. _But_ I can change back and take you there, if this one –" jutting her chin at Newt - "will put in a good word for me."

"With the lifeguard?" Now it was Newt’s turn to look baffled.

"Oh, for Hengist’s – " The Kelpie let out a high-pitched whinny of frustration. "In your books! You went all yadda-yadda on that berk Nessie, and all he ever does is pop his head out from under his tail when there’s a whiff of fog and a cruise boat splashing by. _World’s largest kelpie_ , my rump. You book me a spotlight in your next Pulitzer, mister, and I’ll row you three out straight to Wormboy."

"Newt, be careful." Percival was not going to let the wool slip twice over his eyes. "It could all be a – "

"Oh, please. None of you are exactly spring chickens." Toss, snort. A slender foot pawing the sand under its naked sole. "Going once… going twice..."

And that was how they found themselves riding a flesh-eating horse, whose back could apparently extend to the length of a beam, far into the deep blue sea. At least, Percival philosophized to himself, they’d had their tea first.

 

* * *

 

Their aquatic jaunt may have lasted an hour or two – but to Newt, it felt as if time and the sea had united in stillness, the only motion the Kelpie’s strong thrash of hooves underwater. The Impervius charm made the trip pleasant enough, although Tina’s grip on his waist never faltered, and he could hear Percival’s saturnine mutter about cramps. But to Newt the journey was pure bliss. Once coaxed into small talk, their ride proved a mine of information (when not griping about brine and hair barrettes, and kids getting _so_ overcaloric these days, and that Houynhnhmus guy thinks he’s a total hotcolt but I can outrace him any day, betcha). They glimpsed a Selkie once, singing above the waves, and as they neared their destination the sun pierced through the clouds and bathed them in its marigold light. 

The island was mostly bare, abandoned by its Scottish dwellers since 1912. Newt could see the ruins of a church with a few feral goats wandering around, halfway up a hill whose steep slope hid the view to the island’s south side. As he peered up, the hillside was covered by a sudden shadow. Tina’s thumbs dug into his waist, and Newt’s mouth opened in awe at the huge dark shape flying over the hilltop to land further away.

"You’re on your own," the Kelpie said quickly. 

"Oh, right-ho. Um, I’ll make sure your name is correctly spelled –" but she was already cutting a fast breastroke away. They were left to wade to the shore. Then, the hill.

"Normally, I’d say we colour-camouflage and proceed by stealth." Newt took a quick survey of the open grass "This habitat, however... is not stealth-friendly." 

Percival’s chuckle was unexpected, but a booster. "Yes, I’d say a covert march is no go."

"Up to a point." His faithful pack was already delivering various items of dragon leather into his hands. He held one out. "Put that on, and that. Yes, the helmet too. And you, Tina. We’ll get within sight and see how he reacts. Only don’t shout, all right? Or draw fire of any sort. Or clank. Clanking is right out." 

"Really, Newt. I don't make a habit of emitting sharp metallic sounds."

He felt a jolt of love at her faux-stern voice; at the silver peeping out on the nape of Percival’s neck, under the helmet. They were here, both of them, they were doing this, for him, with him, their faith and folly one. And now they were smiling at one another and starting on the climb – Newt first, a senior adventurer, with Tina and Perce deployed on each side. The ocean swell in their backs did not fade away: it became a many-voiced pep talk as they clambered on, slowly, in the beautiful light.

 

* * *

 

And he’d been right all along. _A Norwegian Ridgeback!_

In his youth, he must have been black, but comely. Now the ridges along his back were pale, flaky, both from age and his enforced stay underground, and he hovered uncertainly on his feet. Right stomp, left stomp, testing each grassy knoll. The dragon made for the edge of the hill, where it flew off. Newt signaled for the others to follow him down the path that down the hill, to a short beach half inundated by the sea.  

"He’s an Old One," he whispered to Tina as they padded down the trail.

 _Join the club_ her gaze said, before it turned interrogative.

"Could be he speaks the norse variant of Parseltongue. Dragons did, long before it became known as serpent-speak. I absorbed some of it when nursing my Occamies. Bit rusty now, but…"

His last words were drowned by a gust of sea breeze, just as they rounded the last bend onto the shore. The dragon had taken a shortcut down the cliff and, with a flap of his great spiked wings, was landing – if not at their feet, then close to. It stretched its neck out and gave a loud bellow.

" _Stupe_ –"

"No, no, wait – hold on!" Newt had grabbed Percival’s arm and begged the ebony wand down before the stunning could take effect. "He’s not angry! He’s – surprised, that’s all. See? No flames." 

"Hmm." Percival patted Newt's hand noncommittally, keeping his own at the ready.

The dragon, his neck still lowered, was blinking milky pink eyes. He took another step forward. Slowly, carefully, he moved his snout to Newt’s hair and sniffed at the pale russet locks. The neck swiveled; the snout followed suit, investigating Percival’s glasses. Percival held himself very stiff and, with admirable self-restraint, refrained from wiping off the mist. But it was Tina’s bob of hair – she had taken off her helmet, presenting her bare head as a token of peace - that proved most puzzling. The Ridgeback gave it a gentle poke, then another. Finally he raised his head and uttered a series of dismayed grunts. 

Newt blinked in synch, his own face lost in confusion.

"He says…" 

"What?" and "Merlin’s longjohns, what?" came from the other two.

"I’m so sorry," Newt told Tina. "I must _really_ be rusty, because it doesn’t make a shred of sense. He says: ‘You three have aged up awfully quick!’ "

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks for everyone who followed their journey so far. It's not quite over, though - stay tuned for the epilogue!


	3. Chapter 3

The dragon was adamant in declining to make sense. But since he also declined to spit fire, or re-route them to the sea with a lash of his tail, the best option was to let him carry on mistaking them. As Tina said, quoting a pet proverb of Queenie’s, "don’t cook your soup and then add honey". 

"Jacob would disagree." Newt had pushed up his sleeves and was rubbing dittany oil into the beast’s rear legs, where the cuffs – now Evanesco’d – had left a history of bruises and gashes. The dragon growled soft approval. "Remember his czernina? All in the sweet’n sour, he’d say." 

"I don't want to sour your sweet." Percival, now un-leathered, ran a hand in his own silver helmet. "But we’re back in Scotland, Voldemort’s chosen bivouack for his hoodlums, and we're losing the daylight. I vote we move our friend to safety."

"Ah, but where is safety?" Newt stroked the scaly flank gently. "We can’t just Side-Along him to Norwegia. For one thing he’s too large not to splinch, and then Ridgebacks are famously harsh on their own kin. Look at him – old, half-blind, no training whatsoever in self-defence. He would be the runt of the herd."

"A reserve, then?" 

"There’s Romania, but… they work mostly with Horntails, not your chummiest beast. Denmark, now, that’s another story." New’s face brightened. "I could fly him to Jutland. There’s an international wizard park with caves and lakes, a rehab center for mixed breeds. I was Our Man in the Ministry when it was founded, chances are I can talk them into taking him in." 

"Good. Good. All settled, then." And Percival began to fiddle with his left cuff. "If you and Tina –"

The boom of sound caught them unaware, ripping, swallowing their next startled words as Newt jumped back and Percival flicked his eyes to the horizon. Five black shapes were homing in on them, wands out, high enough for the sky to become a projectile path. The air in their backs had turned green and glittering: not the lively green of Floo flames and fireworks, but ghost-green; sick; curdled into the shape of a skull sticking out a tongue that was a snake.

The dragon roared again, failing to rear itself on wobbly rear legs.

"Here be trouble." And there be wonder: that Perce’s voice, still its quiet self, got through to him in the turmoil. "Newt. Take Tina with you and fly North."

Newt stared back as if Percival had just asked him to open a snout-to-tail diner.

"Sir, if you think for _one_ moment – "

"Now, Newt!"

Jinxes, already; vicious, cutting the air to the quick. But their scope was still wide enough that Percival could deflect them in time. Behind him, the dragon backed abruptly, struck the hillside and bellowed. It was the fire, Newt grasped too late. The red-hot Unforgivables, raising pang after terrified pang of memory. The dragon had learnt years ago that fire caused pain, and that it came with the clank of soulless metal. Now all he could hear was the death rattle of spells; all he could see was the flashing out of magic. His throat raw, he began to writhe his tail, banging it desperately to the hillside. The jutting rocks above him shook at each tremendous stroke.

"No!" And, in a flash, Newt was at his side. "Hush, oh, hush, sweetheart! You’re going to bury us all."

The next blind flick of tail tripped him up. He landed on his knees under a pelt of dust and little stones, one of which grazed his shoulder. He searched for words, but none came. He was Parseltongue-tied. 

"Newt!" It was Tina. He could not see her, but her presence hovered at the edge of his vision. She sounded almost breathless with the adrenaline of strife. She wheeled, cursed, jinxed, and then she spoke again. "You’ve got to stun him!"

"I can’t!" Newt yelled back. "Not when he’s like this, his heart won’t take it, I might kill him! " 

A lull in the dust. He looked up and saw Tina standing between the rock and the hard place where Percival fought. She was biting her lip, and her face, at that moment, had the terrified cast of a young girl. Then she raised her arm, raised her voice, and called out, "Catch!" 

The next instant, her wand was flying, arrow-straight, into Percival’s blocking hand. 

Newt couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe, as if the whole scene had numbed itself to a stand-still. But she did. He saw her throat stir as she inhaled the thick air, and then… and then, she moved her two hands down from her face to her chest and hips, and her brown and beige travelling clothes melted into gold. A brocade dress with long sleeves and a little ceremony cape falling down her shoulder blades … Newt knew it from some far corner of his brain. She’d worn it twice before – once when she had taken office at Ilvermorny and once at Rolf’s christening. Third time… 

Third time was the charm. He watched her advance, heroic, scared and determined, and he knew who she was. The words came to him from the other side of the century, period words now: dating back to a time of fast cars, gaudy cocktails, bob-haired heiresses and F S. Fitzgerald’s heyday. _Golden girl_. _Our golden girl_. That was who she was and who she’d ever be, moving on to place her hands over the dragon’s eyelids as they fluttered close, now oblivious to the hue and cry of battle.

"Three down!" came in Percival’s voice, its lower tones darkly exulting. He swung his two wands in a whiplash line and the fourth Death Eater fell like a stone, only his broom tossed back and forth above the water. It was a bracing sight. Gone was Percival of the cramps and glasses, MACUSA’s honorary tech wizard and yesterday’s man. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of 1945, his cloak flaring out with the warrior's heat. The sun in his back, he fought two-handedly; parried; slammed; peopled the sky with deadly Northern lights, and while his face was hidden from Newt, Newt knew what the remaining Death Eater saw in it – knew, and was not surprised when the sea opened a manhole and gulped the man down, hood and all.

Percival turned to them, wiping a sleeve across his face.

"Good thing" – his voice shaky now, but from laughter – "I had some practice during siesta!"

 

* * *

 

Nothing and nobody making sense now, but who cared? Newt was laughing too, carefree, heart pumping sudden truths into his blood as he threw his arms fiercely around his friend. _We are grey. We are old. But we aren’t death’s fools_. He felt a kiss to his temple and a step back: watched as Perce walked over to Tina and handed her wand back to her. The wand was held high and Tina’s hands were wrapped around it, Percival bowing his head and lips to them as before a sceptered queen. They all gazed at one another and breathed, the high of the fight still visible in their sparkling eyes. None of them felt like breaking into speech.

But speech was due, and Percival, true to self, took command of it.

"Better go now. They've only sent five men after the sad old bunch, but when five fail to return…it might be fifteen next."

"Right-ho." Newt prised himself loose from the joy, glanced around. The dragon, still entranced, was half-grunting, half-vibrating some sort of dragon lullaby to himself. He would be pliant enough. "I _think_ I can persuade him into flight – three riders, bit of a tall order, but –" He looked again at Percival ‘s face and dropped sharply into silence. "No. Not three."

"Newt..." Tina stretching out an arm, once again clad in tweed.

"I should have known." He had to force the words past the aching lump in his throat. "The second you mentioned that Portkey. Two cufflinks for the three of us. You never meant to go back home, did you?"

"What’s there for me at  _home_?" Percival spoke calmly, but his eyes had a familiar depth to them; pupil-dark; that mixed breed of loss and lucidity, seen so many times since the day Newt had followed his Demiguise to a hidden cache in MACUSA’s sewers and set a captive free. "The young’uns are up and eager, thank Mercy, and they’ll have the knack of progress before I do. Here is a war. And our side is hard-pressed enough that it will take a gift horse, even an old charger, without looking it in the mouth."

"But why? Why now? You’ve known about that war for years! What made you change your mind?" 

"Because…" The dark eyes shut briefly, opened again. "Because of who they killed last summer."

"Charity Burbage," Tina said quietly. "Hogwarts’ professor of Muggle Studies. You may have read her pamphlet in _The Prophet_ , denouncing the… the witch hunt after Muggles and Muggle-borns. A very forceful, very effective text. But then, she knew about the power of words. She knew what she was doing, going public with hers." 

He could feel the unspoken weight behind Tina’s own words, as if she was using some sort of double-speak. But he couldn’t parse them. Not yet.

"Then, back in July, we learnt that she had resigned from her post. I thought she was taking shelter, really – and so I did not write to her, did not try to make contact. Neither did Percival. We both thought her undercover. She’d always been good at…hiding who she really was."

"Who was she?"

It was Percival who answered. "Before she changed her name, she was known as Modesty Barebone."

The name rang a long-lost echo in Newt’s mind. Modesty. A young girl with blond plaits coiled round her head, hanging at Tina’s side but refusing to hold hands, from the dogged vulnerability of children who have learnt too soon to be on their own. Tina’s protégée, found and brought to her by Percival after he’d been told about Credence and the whole poignant Obscurus fiasco. It had taken years for Percival to let go of his vicarious guilt over the boy’s fate. For protective Tina to let go of the little girl. Ilvermorny had been Modesty's first choice, and then the wide free world. And now…

"No!" Tina’s voice was vibrant. "She had a long life and she lived it to the full, every day, _every_ day of it on her terms. Let's remember this when it is remembrance time. And if you fight her executioners, Percival, then so will I. Don’t you _dare_ see me safely home." 

"Oh, and I am to be safe?" Newt asked harshly. "Never. Not on your life. Where you two go, there I’ll go."

"Not this time." Percival’s eyes once again on him, dark a warm color now, pleading, pitting half a century of guardianship against Newt’s scowl. "You’re a wanted man, Newt Scamander. Rolf, Hoppy, Milly, Mauler, they  all need you at home. Even now there’s a dragon waiting to get safe conduct into a safer world. So you get on his back, you hear me? You get on and get back, and – wait, what’s this?"

Once again they turned to scan the sky. But where there'd been five shapes, there was only one: a gleam of silver against the deeper, evening blue. It rode the crest of a wave, took off again, soared above their heads. When the silver plover opened its beak, it spoke in Queenie’s voice:

"Trouble at Hogwarts, honeys; it looks like You-Know-Who is planning an assault. Ain’t gonna be a quiet night. So don’t look me up on your way back – and look after y’all."

 

* * *

 

That was it, then. We this way and you that way – he to Jutland, Perce’s cufflinks jiggling against his heart in his shirt pocket. And Tina and Perce to Hogwarts and History’s second chance. Dark clouds to be stopped, children to be saved. Newt mustered everything he had and smiled into their eyes. 

"Here," Tina said, handing him her cape. It had been Transfigured back into a plaid and folded into a makeshift saddle. Tina now wore Percival‘s coat, while Percival crowed non-stop about his two layers and his cashmere waistcoat. "And there’s your map. North-ho all the way, and when you’re done – Vermont and bed, Newt."

"What, no battlecry for me?" Newt grinned, resolved to ease their parting by upping the sass. "No  _Come back with your dragon, or on it_?"

"You come back on this dragon and I’ll jinx you myself." Tina stroked the dragon’s snout and turned away, but Newt caught her elbow, mischief forgotten. 

"Tina. Just – this. Percival, come here."

He waited until he could feel their warmth on each side. "My true home is in Dorset. Fires in winter, a garden in bloom. Rooms, lots of them, goose-feather beds and cushiony armchairs, honey for tea, everyday. And a Kneazle for each of us. Tell me I’ll see you there when you’re done." He turned and touched his forehead to Percival’s. "And then we'll never be parted. Tell me!"

"I promise, Newt."

"I promise." Tina’s sweet-lined brow nuzzled his. "Dibs on Milly." 

Newt smiled, and was still smiling at them when the dragon took off. He gave the bridle some slack; pressed his toecap gently into the soft gap between two scales, his own war reflexes revived. " _Huisipisi_ ," he said, bending over his charge’s neck to whisper in his ear, which perked up to the ancient sibilants. The dragon’s wings flapped quicker, stronger, as he kept the sunset to his right. 

Newt turned his head back, but the island had already been squeezed to pebble-size beneath him. Only the wind now, above and under and around, bracing and carefree. He threw them into it.

 

* * *

 

In the fireline, in the dawn, Minerva McGonagall’s tartans looked flamboyant: a sunrise before the hour. She and Tina stood on the battlement, doing their best to Headmistress a battle which ebbed and flowed with no discipline whatsoever. Not unlike the Alpha Werewolf Frat on a spree, Tina surprised herself thinking, only much more lethal.

"Two naps a day," Minerva mused, watching her fire a strafing round at a knot of Snatchers surrounding a lone Centaur. "I would be glad of  _one_ these days. You look – JORDAN! NO SALLY INTO THE FOREST UNTIL I SPEAK THE WORD! – quite tireless." 

Tina nodded. "I feel tireless."

"And yet, planning to retire." Minerva gave her a sharp-eyed look. "Winning a war is only half the job, Porpentina."

"Yes, experience taught me that." Together, they set up a new energy field in the Quad. "It’s also taught me about trust. And wanting. And winning your own peace." 

"Hmm." Minerva still looked stern, but there was a wry glint in her eye. "Could it be that your peace is linked to the very dashing gentleman who relieved me of command in the Quad Courtyard?" 

Before Tina could answer, there were shouts and hurrahs further below, and a great slash of gold rented the sky. Tina looked up and gasped. Minerva, while keeping clear of anything so mundane as a gasp, cleared her throat.

"Tina, is this a –" 

"Tina! Perce!" Newt’s voice, magically amplified, cascaded down the castle walls as he swept a large half-circle above them. It was positively ebullient. "You said not to on this dragon – but _that_ one’s a Hungarian Horntail! He’s a champ!"

"Merlin in Avalon," Minerva muttered. She turned to Tina, lost to the warmth of reunion, and coughed again. "Gentleman  _friends_ , Tina?" 

The Horntail dove snout first into the fray, spitting fire left and right as it did. The fire kindled a light, and the light struck open a new perspective. Tina wasn’t a Seer. Neither was Percival down below, an invisible  presence connected to her by that radiant trail. But at that moment, it felt as if she had been granted night vision. She saw what she didn’t know yet would be the morning-end of night – she saw daylight in Dorset and a house flinging its windows open to it; she heard the song of bees and Rolf’s laughter under trees in bloom; and indoors, talking over old times and toast with honey, she saw the three of them sitting close together, a Kneazle on each lap.

_Yet feet that wandering have gone_

_Turn at last to home afar._

This. This would be the end of the journey, their unexpected, incredible journey.

And it would be nothing like an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt's quip, "Come back with your dragon, or on it", is a variation on the old Roman saying "Come back with your shield, or on it" (vanquish or die, but don't throw your shield away and run).
> 
> And the final quote is also from Tolkien. I have very Tolkienish feels about this fic. :D
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who gave this a go!


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